Chapter Seventeen
Lark
Zomo holds the garden party early in the afternoon the next day. I am hardly surprised by the turnout. The castle gardens are usually not even open to many fae who sit on the court, and the prospect of visiting them, alone, will have tempted some of those who would have otherwise not attended.
Dante and I hardly spoke after returning to my rooms last night, but I do not believe he slept much, if at all. I know I did not.
I don’t want you to stay.
Of course, that is not what I want either.
Even in a perfect world, he would have to visit the Guardians every time he wished to cross the veil; he does not have the power to cut through alone.
Every second here, too, shows me how little he would be accepted.
And while a bond with Oisin may not preclude me from cementing my soulbond with Dante, it would be viewed poorly.
With my connection to Oisin, to the crowns, I am not entirely convinced it would be safe for him, either.
It is better they leave tonight. That he returns home and, one day, forgets all about me. It will be a painful thing to accept, but it is for the best. It has to be.
He trails a few steps behind me as we descend into the gardens.
They are not manicured or tamed as I would expect to see in the human realm.
No, here the plants roam freely, creating their own delightful landscape, and when I breathe in the scent of honeysuckle and lavender, it is the first time something feels like home.
“This is… a lot,” Grant mutters. He is dressed more simply than last night, in a coral tunic and deep green trousers, his glamour firmly in place. No one will know he is not a selkie. “Nice, though.”
Dante huffs, and when I look at him, his eyes are amused. His gaze lingers on the hedge maze in the distance. It is not somewhere I would advise he goes. The maze is known to change at will, branches shifting to trap unsuspecting fae inside.
Of course, we can coax our way out again. He cannot.
“Let us get this over with,” I say, and while I cannot bring myself to smile, I school my features into something more neutral as I sweep in to greet the first fae who have arrived.
As he did last night, Grant wanders away quickly and flits between several different groups. Some I recognise, some I do not. More than at the ball, for certain.
Dante stays with me, but he is tense. He scans the crowd from time to time, and eventually, I reach over and touch his arm.
The tunic he wears today is a darker purple than the one from last night, not decorated quite as intricately, but I like the way it looks on him all the same.
Hair peeks from below the low collar and I try not to let my eyes dip there.
“They will come,” I say.
“They?”
I incline my head. “Oisin will bring her here. The fae expect it of him.”
“Are they all going to know…”
“What?”
“That you struck a deal.”
“We would expect nothing less,” a new voice says. Veles is standing there, dark eyes fixed on Dante. “A deal would always have to be struck for the second crown.”
Dante flushes and takes half a step back. Veles shifts his gaze to me.
“It is good that you could make it,” I say.
“You could have made a worse choice, I suppose,” Veles says, ignoring the courtesy. “But he will be the most dangerous one once things settle down.”
“He is ambitious?”
Veles snorts. “Undoubtedly. It is not that. It has been a long time since we had a Seelie wearing a crown. There are those who will not like it.”
Because he is Seelie, or because the other Seelie will expect more from him? Likely both. Oisin has made it clear what he plans to do, and after so long away from this place, I find myself on his side.
“At least it will be interesting,” I reply.
Veles’ eyebrows fly up. It is what I need. If I am to stay here, I refuse to be bored.
“Remember that when you find yourself fighting for your life,” he replies, and Dante lets out a faint gasp.
I reach for him without looking, and when my hand lands on the back of his neck, all the tension leaves his frame.
Veles studies us both again. Does he see the truth, too?
I know why Oisin does. It is the only reason I allowed Ophelia to stay there last night; whether I need another crownbearer or not, I would have had Grant tear his throat out if I thought he might hurt her.
“Careful,” Veles says quietly. “A human pet has less protection than a soulbond. Even yours.”
I know that. And I do not say that it does not matter, that Dante will be gone before daybreak tomorrow. Veles ducks his head and excuses himself. I watch him go.
“He’s powerful, isn’t he?” Dante asks.
“Very.”
“Why doesn’t he take a crown?”
“He will not fade soon, but I suspect he only has a century or two left. That is not long enough. Not for us.”
Dante frowns. “How long do you think you’ll rule?”
We have, as with a great many things, never discussed my age. Here and now, I am loath to bring it up. “Long enough.”
“Lark,” Dante says. His tone is a warning, and my skin prickles with heat.
“Should everything go well, six or seven centuries. It is not uncommon for a powerful high fae to live for a millennium. My mother was a little older than that.”
“A millennium?” Dante pales. “And you—They—”
“There are those who believe we might live forever, as vampires do,” I continue, “but that at some point, our magic needs to return to its source. Cycle into our realm, into new fae. We cannot exist without our magic. We require at least a spark. We are like wolves in that.”
Dante nods, but I am not certain he truly hears me now.
How long does he have without me? Fifty, sixty years?
Perhaps a little longer, as I know some witches do find that their magic extends their lifespan by a decade or two.
With Ophelia, that seems likely—a wolf witch is usually more powerful, and she will have traits from her wolf parent, too.
But Dante? I reach for his magic now, and mine gently brushes against it. He jumps, eyes darting to mine.
No. Not enough. Maybe an extra year or two. Maybe not. Either way, it will be impossible to tell.
The thought dampens my already terrible mood, but before I can say anything else, sound ripples through the crowd around us. I glance over. Oisin has arrived, and he has Ophelia on his arm.
Dante grabs my sleeve when he sees her. He only lets go when they approach. Oisin ducks his head, and I study their matching outfits, the deep burgundy at odds with this spring day.
“Your Highness,” Oisin says, “your soulbond. Safely returned.”
He offers her arm to me, and I can do nothing else but take it. Ophelia does not tense when I touch her, but she is not relaxed either. “I am grateful for her safe return. Those responsible?”
“Taken care of.” Oisin’s grin is fast and wicked. He is not lying as such, and yet the entire court knows that we are both playing out a farce. They know she was taken. They will always believe it was Oisin, that he intimidated me into gaining a crown.
Let them. I give Ophelia the faintest smile and then look over in the direction of the band, a group of fae who have been awaiting their cue. The leader, a pixie, sweeps into a low bow before she signals for the music to begin.
My stomach twists unpleasantly. I pull Ophelia a little closer. “Shall we dance?”
Aodhan arrives a few hours later. I do not sense his approach, surrounded by the magic of other fae and of the gardens themselves, but when I look over to check on Dante, who does not seem to realise that Oisin has been shadowing him, Aodhan is already speaking with him.
“Oh, no.”
“What is it?” Ophelia hisses. She is a very good dancer, if an angry one.
Others might not believe so, but the force with which she has stepped on my feet several times tells me that it was not unintentional.
It is doubtful we will spend any time truly alone before they all leave, and yet I think she wants to, if only so she can shout at me.
“My uncle has arrived.”
Ophelia pales. I spin us around so she can see Dante, and her hand clenches in my grip. “That’s him?”
“Yes.”
“He’s powerful. I can feel it from here.”
“That is because he is showing off.”
She looks at me questioningly. I shrug. We dance through the circle of other fae, some of whom are shouting and whooping, sensing that this existential fear might soon be over.
It is a rare feeling for us. Such a long existence should lend itself to considering the future, but too many fae live in the moment to truly grasp it.
“Oisin really doesn’t like him,” Ophelia whispers.
“Many fae do not.”
“No, he…” She presses her lips together as though she does not wish to say anything, then shakes her head. “He’s scared of him, I think.”
Interesting. It is not that I believe Oisin does not fear other fae. Quite the opposite; any high fae who wishes to survive in the court is clever enough to fear their kin. No, what is interesting is that Ophelia knows this about him.
“I thought you wanted to announce it before he got here,” Ophelia says.
I shake my head. If that were the case, we would have never hosted a party. The announcement could have been done in the great hall, clear and succinct.
Aodhan needs to be present, if only so he cannot claim later that he was given no warning. And we will have witnesses. Witnesses who are so desperate for their realm to be saved that they will give no quarter when it comes to a power-hungry fae who might condemn them.
“Are you thirsty?” I ask, and Ophelia understands my meaning immediately.
“Parched.”
I sweep her away from the dancing fae and in Aodhan’s direction. A fae stands close by him and Dante, holding a tray with glasses of wine atop it. I pass one to Ophelia, then take one for myself. I do not have to warn her not to drink it. She tilts it to her lips, but no liquid passes them.
We all need clear heads today.